 | Ovid's metamorphoses in fifteen books |  |
5
The Golden Age.
The Golden Age was first; when Man yet New,No Rule but uncorrupted Reason knew:
And, with a Native bent, did Good pursue.
Unforc'd by Punishment, un-aw'd by Fear,
His Words were simple, and his Soul sincere:
Needless was written Law, where none opprest:
The Law of Man was written in his Breast:
No suppliant Crowds before the Judge appear'd,
No Court erected yet, nor Cause was heard:
But all was safe, for Conscience was their Guard.
The Mountain-Trees in distant prospect please,
E'er yet the Pine descended to the Seas:
E'er Sails were spread, new Oceans to explore:
And happy Mortals, unconcern'd for more,
Confin'd their Wishes to their Native Shoar.
No Walls were yet; nor Fence, nor Mote, nor Mound,
Nor Drum was heard, nor Trumpet's angry sound:
Nor Swords were forg'd; but void of Care and Crime,
The soft Creation slept away their time.
The teeming Earth, yet guiltless of the Plough,
And unprovok'd, did fruitful Stores allow:
Content with Food, which Nature freely bred,
On Wildings, and on Strawberries they fed;
Cornels and Bramble-berries gave the rest,
And falling Acorns furnisht out a Feast.
The Flow'rs unsown, in Fields and Meadows reign'd:
And Western Winds immortal Spring maintain'd.
In following Years, the bearded Corn ensu'd,
From Earth unask'd, nor was that Earth renew'd.
From Veins of Vallies, Milk and Nectar broke;
And Honey sweating through the pores of Oak.
| Ovid's metamorphoses in fifteen books | |